


A Woman's Place

by SallyExactly



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, History, Mission Fic, Time Travel, assorted historical figures - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 06:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18888772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyExactly/pseuds/SallyExactly
Summary: With their usual impeccable timing, Rittenhouse jumps when the flu has swept through the bunker. Lucy must take an untested team back to 1895 to save history. But they've never worked together before, their pilot is doped up on cold medicine, and Lucy's mom has a devious new plan.What could go wrong?





	A Woman's Place

It started with Jiya.

They needed spare parts for the Lifeboat, and they couldn't make everything in the bunker. She, Connor, and Rufus were the only ones who could recognize what they needed, so she and Connor took a heavily guarded field trip into the city and came back with several boxes.

The next morning she came out wearing three sweaters. Twelve hours later, she was in bed with a fever of a hundred and two, an early gift of the flu.

Rufus brought her hot tea and toast. Agent Christopher arrived with a grim expression, grocery bags of food, cold tissues, various over-the-counter medicines, and enough disinfectant to float a boat. She gave Jiya some Tamiflu and distributed masks to the rest of them.

Rufus was next. Then Connor, then Wyatt. Flynn shut himself in his room. Jessica stayed healthy, and Agent Christopher spent as much time as she could with them, but Lucy still ran herself ragged helping to look after the four invalids before Jiya started to mend.

"How the hell did Wyatt not get _you_ sick?" Jiya rasped to Jessica, the first day Jiya managed to shower and sit up for a while. "Was your immune system bitten by a radioactive antigen when you were little?"

Jessica looked at her. "I'm a bartender, I get the flu shot every year."

Jiya looked at Lucy.

Lucy shrugged. "I'm a teacher. Undergrads are germ factories."

"Parent," Agent Christopher explained.

"Great," Jiya muttered.

The jump alarm went off.

Jiya swore, but made it to the consoles with encouraging speed. "Chicago," she reported. "Uh, April 20 th , 1895."

Lucy's mind spun. "Jane Addams and Hull House?" she guessed. "One of the other activists? Hull House itself? Or, um, or it could be Ida B. Wells— she'd just moved there, she'd go on to help form the NAACP— or, um, Eugene Debs— this was after he'd gotten out of prison, but he was going to be  _very_ influential later—"

"Lucy, you have to narrow it down," Agent Christopher said. "That's too much to focus on."

Lucy shook her head. "There's too much going on. Maybe this is their new strategy— obscure their real target by choosing a time and place where there's a lot going on. Or maybe they  _have_ multiple targets." 

Agent Christopher glanced at Flynn's door, which had stayed closed. "Maybe he knows something."

It was only a second before she came out again, looking grim, and grabbed some tissues, some water, and the Tamiflu.

"No Flynn?" Jiya guessed.

"Definitely not."

The door to Wyatt and Jessica's room banged open. Wyatt fell onto his hands and knees. He'd struggled into jeans, and was fumbling his holster over his shoulder, except… Lucy was pretty damn sure he had no business doing that when he couldn't  _walk_ .

"Wyatt, oh my  _God_ , what are you doing up?" Jessica hurried to his side and steadied him. "Go back to bed, you idiot."

"Lifeboat," he mumbled.

"He's  _going_ back to bed, right?" she added, looking at Agent Christopher, who'd just come back out of Flynn's room.

"Mission," he muttered.

"Go back to bed, Wyatt," Agent Christopher ordered.

"Can't… let the girls go alone." He tried to stand.

"They're not going alone, Wyatt," Agent Christopher said. "Go back to bed."

"Don't see Flynn out here."

" _I'm_ going."

Wyatt digested this for a minute. "'kay," he muttered, and let Jessica help him— haul him— back to bed.

Lucy and Jiya exchanged looks.

Agent Christopher raised an eyebrow. "Something someone would like to share with the class?"

"Nope," Lucy said. Jiya shook her head.

"Then let's go."

Jiya loaded herself and the Lifeboat up with decongestants, and they jumped to 1895.

#

Lucy knew right away this wouldn't be a normal mission.

Agent Christopher had never time traveled before, and Jiya had only taken that one disastrous trip to 1954. That meant Lucy was in charge of all the interacting-with-the-past stuff, even more than she usually was— except neither Agent Christopher nor Jiya were used to that division of labor.

Lucy managed to find them all clothes. Cars were too rare and too conspicuous, and she wasn't sure any of them could drive a 19 th -century car anyway. That left Chicago's various forms of public transportation.

"All right." Jiya still sounded hoarse, and Lucy hoped they weren't risking a horrifying epidemic by bringing her here, but she hadn't had a fever in over forty-eight hours. "Should we split up?"

"No," Agent Christopher said firmly. "We don't know where Emma is or what she's planning, and you and I aren't used to this. We stick together."

"Right," Lucy sighed. "Hull House first."

They walked in off the street, like everyone else did, and then Lucy stopped and stared. It was incredible. This entire bustling place, this huge complex dedicated to making the lives of the neighborhood's immigrants better, all built from nothing because Jane Addams had believed she could have a more purposeful life than being a social butterfly. Her 'cathedral of humanity,' Jane had called it.

"So, what do they actually do here?" Jiya murmured, looking around.

"Everything," Lucy replied, without having to think about it. "Language classes. Childcare classes. Kindergarten. Union meetings— they helped build a, a cooperative housing club for working women so they could afford to strike. Reading clubs. Arts classes, to help immigrant parents and their American-born children come together—"

The looks Jiya and Agent Christopher exchanged spoke volumes.

"—she got the idea from watching an old Italian woman spin," Lucy added. "She said, when you tell the story of this place, don't leave out my old woman spinning." She paused a moment, remembering. "Jane and Ellen Gates Starr, the friend she founded Hull House with, even delivered a baby when none of the mother's neighbors would help because she wasn't married."

"Did they, um," Jiya said. "Know what they were doing?"

"Yeah, Jane went to medical school before she had to drop out." She sighed. "When she died, a columnist said, 'We of foreign birth have lost our best friend and the only one who understood us.'"

"So how does Rittenhouse stop them?" Agent Christopher asked.

Unfortunately, Lucy didn't have to think about this one, either. "Frames them as anarchists. There was already a lot of bad feeling toward Jane and Hull House for their supposedly radical positions on things like child labor and trade unions."

"And how would they do that?"

"Well, the easiest way would probably be to plant anarchist literature all over the place and then convince the police to raid the house. Or have someone "accidentally" find it."

"Great." Jiya sounded congested and disgruntled. "So all we need to do is search a place the size of a city block for some pamphlets."

"Can I help you?"

They all turned quickly. Lucy immediately recognized the tall blonde woman coming towards them: Florence Kelley, the economist and socialist who'd taken her three children and fled an abusive marriage. She'd fought her husband for custody and fought the exploitation of women and children in sweatshops, becoming Illinois's first Chief Factory Inspector— and the first woman in any statewide office. All while supporting her children as a single mother and going to law school at night. In fact, Lucy was pretty sure she was just about to graduate.

She was, in other words,  _ever so slightly_ intimidating.

"We'd like to see Miss Addams," Lucy said, as politely as she could. "May we call on her?"

"I'm afraid Miss Addams is traveling."

Lucy blinked. "Will she be back soon?"

"She's near Niagara Falls. We expect her back in a week."

… oh.

"… oh," Lucy said. "Ah. So sorry to have disturbed you."

"Would you like to leave your name?"

"Uh," Lucy said. "No, we'll… we'll call again. Thank you so much."

At a look from her, Jiya and Agent Christopher followed her back outside. "Are you sure Rittenhouse wouldn't attack if she were gone?" Agent Christopher said. "Maybe it would be a good chance to get in without having to tangle with her personally."

Lucy shook her head. "Jane Addams is a force of nature. There's no way Rittenhouse would only target Hull House and miss the chance to attack her, too. It must be someone else."

"Who?" Agent Christopher asked.

Jiya sniffled, and looked kind of miserable. Lucy felt she was actually lucky for not being able to smell much. This part of Halsted Street wasn't known for its pleasant aromas.

"I mean, there's Ida B. Wells, she's getting married in a few months," Lucy said.

"You said she'll go on to help found the NAACP?"

Lucy nodded. "So will Florence Kelley, actually," she said. "The woman we just met. But… Ida's already brought attention to the horrors of lynching, she's already toured Britain raising awareness there, she's already published  _Southern Horrors_ , just this year she published  _A Red Record_ ,  with detailed descriptions and statistics of lynching. Don't get me wrong, it's awful if she dies now, but it's not the masterstroke it would be if Rittenhouse had jumped fifteen years earlier." Lucy shook her head. "Like Jane and Hull House, Ida's  _already_ impacted history in ways they wouldn't want. So why come after her now?"

"Okay, who else?" Agent Christopher said calmly. "You gave us some other names."

"Oh God," Lucy muttered. "This must be what they planned. To make it impossible for us to figure out who. My mother must've planned this…"

_Not good enough, not good enough_ chorused in her head, an echo of thirty years of hearing it in not so many words.

"Lucy," Agent Christopher said firmly. "Who else could it be?"

Lucy tried to take a deep breath. "Eugene Debs," she guessed. "He helped organize the Pullman strike last year, but he's not yet the famous socialist he will be."

"Okay. So where could we find him?"

"I… don't know. He just got out of prison… Um, their home was in Terre Haute, not Chicago…"

Agent Christopher waited patiently.

"Okay. I know who we can ask. Clarence Darrow, he represented Debs at trial." Lucy winced. "Darrow could even  _be_ their target."

"Monkey Trial Clarence Darrow?" Jiya rasped. "That guy?"

Lucy nodded. "He also fought against the death penalty."

"Great, we can kill two birds with one stone by checking with him," Agent Christopher said. "Do you know where we're going?"

"I… know the neighborhood. Once we're close enough, we can ask."

"Then let's go."

They walked about a mile, Lucy still focusing on the question of targets. "It could also be Elliot Dalton," she said after a minute. "Famous Chicago educator. The schools he founds initially for the rich and famous, and the techniques they pioneer, end up helping kids from all swaths of society. He really has a huge impact on how we teach kids."

"I know who that is," Jiya croaked. "Rufus said his school had his picture on the wall."

"I'm not surprised. Anyway, he's still mostly focused on privileged kids right now, so this would be the ideal time to take him out."

"Where could we find him?" Agent Christopher asked. "If we strike out with Debs?"

Lucy was grudgingly coming to appreciate her calm, methodical approach to this mission. Lucy knew from experience how overwhelming your first trip to the past was, but Agent Christopher was as levelheaded and focused as ever. She was paying exactly as much attention to their surroundings as Lucy had seen her do in present-day California.

_Jiya_ was kind of zoned out, but she was also on  _a lot_ of decongestants. 

"… Miss _Shakesman?_ "

Lucy froze. Then she turned.

_I should have remembered he lives in Chicago now_ , she thought dazedly, staring up at an incredulous Robert Todd Lincoln.

"Mr. Lincoln." She managed a smile and a curtsy. "How do you do."

He was still staring at her in disbelief.

Well, now this was really awkward.

He recovered enough to pull himself together and bow politely. "It's— it's a pleasure to see you again," he managed. "You look, ah…"

Lucy watched him grope for the polite way to say,  _you've barely aged a day in thirty years. Are you a witch or am I going mad?_

"… very well," he finished.

Lucy nodded her thanks.

They stood there.

"Uh, may I present my companions," she said suddenly, remembering her social duty. "Mr. Lincoln, this is Mrs. Evelina Wilderhurst and her daughter, Patience Wilderhurst. Mrs. Wilderhurst, Miss Wilderhurst, Mr. Lincoln."

Robert, Jiya, and Agent Christopher exchanged polite nothings. "What, uh, brings you to this part of Chicago? Miss Shakesman," Robert asked.

"Ah," Lucy said. "Mrs. Wilderhurst and Miss Wilderhurst were… paying calls, and I accompanied them." That seemed safest. "And… you?" Did he live around here? They were out of the slums of Halsted Street, into a much nicer part of town.

"I was paying a call on Mrs. Lyons," Robert said. "She wanted me to meet a, a journalist, who wishes to write a biography of my father. I'm afraid I could not be very helpful beyond offering her a daguerrotype."

_A biography of Lincoln_ . 1895. There was one of those already, wasn't there? Which meant— 

Alarm bells started to go off in Lucy's head. "A local journalist?" she asked casually.

"Ah, no. A Miss Tarbell, from New York City." Robert seemed to shrug. "I don't know what she can add to Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Hay's efforts, but she's quite determined. Being paid by a magazine, apparently."

"Is she still with Mrs. Lyons?" Lucy asked quickly.

"I, ah," Robert frowned. "I have no idea. Is it important?"

Of all the people for them to run into. Lucy grappled with what to tell him, knowing that everything that had happened in 1865 would be nearly as fresh in his mind as it had been in hers. Much more time had passed for him than for her, but on the flip side, she hadn't had the trauma of losing a parent to sear that night into her memory.

_No, just other trauma_ . 

She pushed that aside and made a quick decision. She didn't want to mislead him any more than she had to. Not this man, whom she'd last seen covered in his father's blood.

"I think Miss Tarbell is in danger," she said.

Jiya and Agent Christopher looked at her. Robert's expression was impossible to read.

"Can you take us to Mrs. Lyons?" Lucy added.

They walked two and two down the sidewalk. "Why do you think Miss Tarbell is in danger?" Robert asked. "Who would seek to harm her? She's just a small-time journalist."

Lucy hesitated. "Someone who thinks she might become influential in American politics," she said finally.

Robert looked sideways. "Someone who  _thinks_ she might become influential in American politics? How would he know?"

"I…" Lucy floundered. "It's hard to say what people get in their minds."

They continued in silence. Finally Robert said, "Miss Shakesman, may I ask you something?"

"Of course." Though she couldn't promise to answer.

"You'll think it's rather odd."

"I… wouldn't be so sure."

He cleared his throat. "You may not know this, but President Grant took a rather personal interest in the case of Jesse James, that outlaw from Missouri. You remember: he terrorized the region during President Grant's term of office."

"Uh… yes."

"He fielded a number of complaints, through his wife, from people in that part of the territory," Robert explained. "So he was very pleased to hear the outlaw had finally been brought to justice."

_That's not justice_ , Bass had told them. Lucy felt a little cold and a little sick, like she did every time she remembered shooting Jesse James in the back.

Robert cleared his throat again. He looked… uneasy, if that could be said of such a composed man. This grave, statesmanlike man in his fifties was very different from the hopeful, energetic man she remembered.

"He sent me a letter after James's execution," Robert continued. "He thought the woman photographed there looked very much like the woman who saved his life that night in Ford's Theatre."

… _oh hell_.

Lucy should have expected this.

"Once I saw it, I had to agree. But I reminded him it couldn't be you, because you would have been much older now."

Very loud alarms were going off in Lucy's head.

"And while it would be indelicate of me to comment, Miss Shakesman, you must be aware of how… well-preserved… you are."

He looked sideways at her. "I can't help but notice, that you don't look startled at any of this," he said after a long moment.

"I—" What could she say?

"What exactly  _are_ you?" he asked after several more steps. He regarded her, now, with simple cool curiosity, and that was painful to see.

"Don't worry," he added, with a rather humorless smile. "We don't burn witches any more."

_Witches were hanged, not burned_ . In the US, anyway. She didn't say it. "I'm a regular person," she said instead. "Just like you."

"I see." His expression hardened a little. "You won't give me any explanation?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

He looked sideways again. "Did you know my father was going to die?"

His detachment hurt. The memory of shouting  _No! Mister President!_ allowed her to say, with a semi-clean conscience, "I knew of… trouble. Not from any source anyone would have believed. But I—" She swallowed. "I did not know how the night would end."

"I see," Robert said again, slowly. It was impossible to guess his thoughts. When Lucy looked back, Agent Christopher was equally inscrutable. Jiya looked worried.

They reached an elaborate house. Robert rang the bell. After a moment, a maid answered the door, looking surprised. "Mr. Lincoln!"

"Is Miss Tarbell still here?" Robert asked.

"Uh— no, sir, she's just left."

Robert glanced back at Lucy, as if to say,  _are we finished now?_

But then he said, "Perhaps Mrs. Lyons has the address of her lodging? I've just met some old friends who are very desirous of meeting her."

They waited in an elegant room. Mrs. Lyons turned out to be a well-dressed woman who was happy to write down the address of a hotel in elegant, copperplate script; they thanked her, said their goodbyes, and took their leave.

Once they'd reached the road, Robert glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. "Uptown, I believe," he said. "Shall we?"

"You're… helping us?" Lucy said.

He took a moment to respond. "The last time we met, Miss Shakesman, you saved General Grant," he finally said. "President Grant. Then you appear to have brought one of the country's most notorious criminals to justice." He paused, and looked at her. "I may not know  _what_ you are, but I'm fairly sure your intentions are good."

Lucy wasn't sure what to say to that. Finally: "It wasn't justice, Rob— Mr. Lincoln," she whispered. "He surrendered, and I— I shot him in the back."

Robert looked startled. Shaken. "Why?"

Lucy too a deep breath. "Something told me it was his time," she tried hesitantly. That was the closest she could come to explaining that part of the truth. "And— he'd just killed one of the marshals we were traveling with, and I wasn't sure if his surrender was sincere or if we'd survive bringing him in."

"What were you doing traveling with marshals?" Robert sounded bemused.

"Uh— we didn't think we could bring him in alone."

He cleared his throat. "Is that a polite way of telling me you can't explain that, either?"

"Uh— no. But I can't." Lucy was relieved to see Robert was trying not to smile.

They caught a bus going in the right direction. Lucy was glad to have Robert with them for a lot of reasons, this one mundane but important. Having someone who knew how to get around would save them time, and racing against Emma, every minute mattered.

At this time of day, the bus was not full. There was space for all of them to sit and together. "Miss Wilderhurst," Robert said.

Jiya, staring out at the sidewalk, doped up on cold medicine and fascinated by her first trip to the 19 th century, didn't respond. 

"Miss Wilderhurst," Robert repeated patiently.

Agent Christopher, who was beside her "daughter," nudged her.

Jiya looked up, startled. "Oh! Uh. Sorry. What?"

"I was going to ask how you met Miss Shakesman."

Jiya turned a wide-eyed look on Lucy for just a fraction of a second. "We… were… in… school together," she said.

"Yes." Lucy backed her up. "In…" She tried to remember which parts of the country Robert had seen in his life so far, and failed miserably at saying something convincing in a convincing amount of time.

Robert was quiet for a moment. "I already know that you are not what you seem to be." He sounded a little disappointed. "You don't need to give me a lie."

"The three of us met at the place where we work," Agent Christopher said. "At our jobs."

Lucy and Jiya both nodded.

"Ah." Robert paused. "And, if we're to work together, what shall I call you that will actually get your attention?" He still looked a little stern, but a ghost of the smile Lucy remembered from 1865 hovered around his lips.

"Jiya," Jiya said.

"Christopher," Agent Christopher said.

Robert looked faintly scandalized at the idea of calling an unrelated woman by her first name. "All right," he said gamely.

Robert led the way as they walked the three blocks to the hotel. "Uh, cliffs notes on this Miss Tarbell?" Jiya murmured, when he was a few steps ahead.

"Standard Oil, right?" Agent Christopher said.

"That's what she's most famous for, writing the exposé. Standard Oil was a huge trust that controlled the petroleum industry across the country," Lucy explained to Jiya. "Lots of abusive business practices. Ida's exposé creates a lot of negative press, both for them in particular and for trusts in general, and the Supreme Court ends up ruling for their dissolution."

"That's good, right?" Jiya asked.

"It's a victory against unchecked corporate bullshit. Dissolving the trust basically turned one enormous tentacle monster into a bunch of smaller tentacle monsters, but overall, yes, it was a win."

"I'm sensing a 'but,'" Agent Christopher said.

Lucy smiled. "Well, in this case, it's a good one.  _But_ , by writing her exposé, Ida not only has an impact on Standard Oil, but she helps create the entire field of investigative journalism."

"That seems… important," Jiya said.

"Very."

"How'd she get into it?" Agent Christopher asked.

"Well, she wanted to be a scientist growing up. She studied science in college, and she was always curious about the facts of things. When she was a kid, she threw her baby brother in the creek to see if he'd float."

Jiya looked impressed. Agent Christopher looked quietly horrified.

"Will was fine," Lucy added hurriedly. "But when she got into journalism— almost by accident, she needed a job— she applied her scientific background to her subjects. She did that her whole life. When she found out that merchants on the Lower East Side were selling cheap "wool" baby clothes to the immigrants living in tenements, she proved that it was cotton by boiling it in alkali. She even boiled some in just water alone to make sure that wasn't making them fall apart."

"She had a control group?" Jiya looked approving. "I like a woman who can science."

"She also loved detective novels," Agent Christopher said, rather unexpectedly. " _Gaudy Night_ was one her favorites."

Lucy looked sideways at her. "How do  _you_ know that?"

"You're not the only one who reads, Doctor Preston." Agent Christopher smiled a little.

"Are you a fan of detective novels?" Lucy asked after a minute.

"Once in a while. In all my… spare time."

Lucy snorted. She was familiar with that feeling.

That big building up ahead had to be the hotel. Lucy rejoined Robert, figuring they'd been rude enough to him, letting him walk alone while they talked about things he— oh God, Lucy hoped so, anyway— couldn't hear.

"Have you been well, Miss Shakesman?" he asked after a moment or two.

"I've been… well, thank you." She got it out without thinking about it, because she knew if she  _did_ stop to think about that adjective, she'd get hung up on it. "And you?"

"I've been…" He hesitated, and she wondered if his thoughts ran along the same lines as hers. "I've been a fortunate man, Miss Shakesman," he said finally.

Lucy knew his biography. Since she'd last seen him, the night of his father's death, his last remaining brother had died, as had his mother and his only son. She knew he was sincere anyway.

"How did you find the Court of St. James?" she asked.

Robert looked at her, trying not to smile. "You know about that?"

"I'm a very well-read woman, Mr. Lincoln," she said with assumed dignity.

"Clearly." He stopped trying not to smile. "It, ah…" He cleared his throat, and the smile vanished. "Despite…"

"I was sorry to hear about Jack," Lucy said softly. It had to make it worse, that his son had died so slowly that they had alternated between knowing there was no hope, and clutching at it anyway.

This time, Robert didn't ask her how she knew. He nodded once. "Thank you, Miss Shakesman."

They were almost at the hotel now. After another moment, he continued, in a more normal voice, "But our daughters are, thank God, healthy. And I have a grandson." He smiled, and Lucy discovered that the Proud Grandparent Look transcended time and place.

"How old is he?"

"Why do I think, Miss Shakesman, that you might know the answer to that already?"

"I have no idea," Lucy said seriously. And then they'd reached the hotel, and Robert was taking off his hat as the doorman held the door for them.

Robert sent his card up to Ida, and they were shown into the parlor to wait. Now that they were here, Lucy felt her nerves begin to fray. Rittenhouse could be up there even now. She listened for a gunshot, but it could be— it could be poison, it could be anything. Agent Christopher looked similarly alert. But then she always looked alert.

A tiny, treacherous part of Lucy whispered how surprisingly nice it was to have a soldier who didn't argue with her. She shushed that part of herself, and hoped Wyatt was getting better fast.

"You were asking about St. James, Miss Shakesman?"

Lucy nodded.

So Robert gave them one or two of the less tragic anecdotes from his time as minister to the United Kingdom in the Harrison administration, including their trips to Versailles, and his daughter's engagement and marriage to a historian who was part of the American delegation.

"Mr. Lincoln, this is a surprise."

Lucy looked up quickly. Ida Tarbell was— as she had known from photographs— a tall woman, with a strong, dignified face and a look about her of common sense and wry good humor. She looked pleased to see Robert, if puzzled by the rest of them, and Lucy, who knew Ida had wanted more from Robert for her biography of his father than he had given her, could practically see her ears perking up in journalistic interest.

Robert could, too. "I'm afraid I have no new information for you," he said. "But shortly after we parted, I met some old friends of mine who were very anxious to meet you. I took the liberty of hoping we might call on you. Miss Tarbell, this is Miss Juliet Shakesman, Miss Jiya— Wilderhurst— and Mrs. Evelina Christopher. Ladies, Miss Ida Tarbell."

Lucy knew the years had made Robert much more serious than he'd been in 1865, thirty years ago. He was a corporate lawyer now, and a member of influential boards who was not particularly sympathetic to organized labor. Yet the ease with which he juggled the patchwork of their real names and their pseudonyms made her suspect that, deep down, he was beginning to enjoy this.

They exchanged polite how-do-you-dos. "I'm afraid my time is limited," Miss Tarbell began. "I'm expecting another caller—"

"We came because we think you're in danger." Lucy was as blunt as Wyatt could have wanted.

Ida looked at her blankly. "Danger? What on earth for?"

There was another disadvantage to this strategy of Rittenhouse's, of killing people before they were famous. It was hard to convince them someone could be after them. Lucy hadn't yet found a way around the problem except for pretending to be psychic, and she was absolutely not going to try that here. "Because— someone— believes you will go on to be an influential journalist, and they want to stop you." She felt like she was walking a tightrope. If she told Ida too much, if just a few words led her to take one assignment and not another, history could change in a big way.

Ida looked from her to Robert and then back again. "Miss Shakesman, I'm very flattered by your estimation of my importance, but I'm a biographer, and what you describe is the stuff of fiction. I hope I shall offend very few with my biography of the president— but even if I do, no one is going to want to harm me." She spread her hands. "It's a legitimate piece of historical work. What have I to be afraid of?"

"And your next project?" Lucy asked. "Are you planning anything? Can you think of anyone it might upset?" That was as specific as she dared to be.

Ida seemed to be losing patience with this conversation. "Miss Shakesman, we haven't even published the first article. I can't see to the end of  _this_ series, let alone imagine another."

"Beg your pardon, Miss," the maid said from the doorway. "Another visitor for you."

Ida turned, looking relieved. "Ah, Mister Dalton." She glanced back at Lucy. "I'm sorry, Miss Shakesman. Perhaps we can meet another—"

The man in the natty top hat smiled at Ida, took a gun out of his waistcoat, and—

Three shots—

Something collided with Lucy, and she collided with the floor—

Robert had tackled her to the ground—

Lucy yanked the nearest table down in front of them— Jiya had taken cover behind the sofa— She looked with dread towards Ida.

Ida hadn't even moved. She stared at the body on the carpet, eyes huge. Agent Christopher lowered her gun.

Outside, the maid went into hysterics.

"Forgive my— my liberties, Miss Shakesman," Robert managed, looking discomposed, for the first time, as he stood and offered Lucy his hand. He was staring at Agent Christopher, who'd put her gun away— Lucy had no idea where the hell she was carrying it, in the clothes of a middle-class woman of the Gilded Age— and was searching the body. She shifted to avoid the growing puddle of blood, and also to use her own body to shield the sleeper's smartphone from view as she slipped it into her reticule.

"Is this the danger you mentioned, Miss Shakesman?" Ida finally said, with admirable control, though her voice was ragged.

"Uh… yes. I think so."

Ida looked at Robert in disbelief, a remarkably clear expression of  _you_ are mixed up with  _THIS?_

"I've learned not to question Miss Shakesman, Miss Tarbell," he said gravely.

Lucy was surprised it had been so easy. Or was it? Would Ida be permanently frightened off from journalism?

Lucy looked at her. No. Not her.

But if Rittenhouse's strategy was to travel to a time and place with too many influential people for Lucy to be able to easily identify their target, then they wouldn't need to be subtle.

"Why would Mister Dalton want to kill  _me?_ " Ida asked, when the body was gone.

"Sometimes," Lucy began. "Sometimes people just aren't… what they seem to be."

Robert looked up from where he was talking with the police officer, seemingly having heard. He paused just a moment, raising one eyebrow, and then continued.

Lucy had expected more trouble with the police. But this was 1895, and policing was… um,  _younger_ , compared to her own day. That and the fact that the sleeper had made his attempt in front of four witnesses— one of them being of the area's most influential citizens— let them brush over the questions that might be particularly awkward for the team. The manager had brought them all into another parlor, and apologized profusely, as if he had anything to do with it.

"I still don't understand how you knew," Ida said.

Lucy sensed danger. Ida had the determination necessary to run a giant, tentacled trust to the ground. Lucy didn't want her getting her teeth into  _this_ question. "Tell me, Miss Tarbell, what do you think of the woman question?" It was the 1895 equivalent of blurting out, "So who did you vote for?"

Ida looked unsettled— and distracted, as Lucy had hoped. "Well," she began. "It seems in all this rush of women to get out of the home," she finally said slowly, "they forget the value of what they're leaving behind."

Jiya stared at her in disbelief. "You say that? You, an independent traveling writer?"

Ida looked self-conscious. "I don't know. There are great wrongs to be righted, no question, but… why are women so fixated with the vote? Why should they not instead use their feminine influence in the way only they can do? Women are, by and large, made for bearing and rearing children. Why do we fight so hard to deny that fact?"

Well, Lucy had distracted Ida with a vengeance. But though she had known the general answer already, it still hurt to hear out loud.

Also, now Jiya was out for blood: "Which is why  _you're_ sitting in a Chicago hotel, writing a biography of Abraham Lincoln."

Ida looked truly stung. Lucy thought it time to intervene. "Forgive me for introducing such an uncomfortable question, Miss Tarbell," she said.

Ida's look of good humor slowly returned. "I've pried into the affairs of enough great men— and women— that I suppose it does me good to have the tables turned occasionally."

"Your, um, Napoleon biography was extraordinary," Lucy offered.

"Thank you." Ida looked genuinely pleased. "These people who shape our society, our world, who bend history to their achievements…"

Lucy tried not to twitch. Jiya looked at her with concern. "Do you miss Washington?" Lucy blurted, before she totally flipped her shit at having to listen to Great Man theory.

Ida looked wistful. "I confess, the comforts of some backwoods hostelries are… idiosyncratic, at best. And I’ll be glad to return to my friends there. I miss Mr. Bell's weekly receptions. Are you familiar with them?"

Lucy shook her head. She was, a little, but Jiya would want to hear about this.

"Mr. Alexander Graham Bell— he hosts a number of scientists who present their work. They've started publishing it publicly, in fact. I believe they're calling it  _The National Geographic Magazine_ ."

"Sounds fascinating," Lucy murmured.

"I'll be glad to return to my wheel, as well," Ida said after a moment. "Though Mrs. Lyons was so very kind as to lend me her daughter's while I am here. Do either of you bicycle?" She looked hopeful.

"Too hazardous for me," Lucy said. "… do you have yours here?"

"Do you want to try it, Miss Shakesman?" Ida's smile was rather sly.

"No, thank you, walking is about all I can manage."

"Miss Wilderhurst?" Ida's expression was rather challenging.

"Sure, why not?" Jiya said.

"Shouldn't we be leaving?" Agent Christopher murmured, when Lucy explained where they were going. "We took care of the sleeper agent. We need to get home. These aren't pleasure trips."

"It'll just take a few minutes," Lucy said. "How many chances do we get to hang out with Ida Tarbell?"

Agent Christopher was trying not to smile. "Why do I get the feeling you were very good at getting what you wanted as a child?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Jiya had to learn to deal with the old-fashioned bicycle, and corral her skirts without casually scandalizing passersby. Luckily they were in a quiet alley, with few witnesses to Jiya's disregard for period-appropriate clothing norms. She mastered it surprisingly quickly.

"Invigorating, isn't it?" Ida asked, when Jiya had made three full circuits of the alley without stopping.

Jiya braked, and stifled a cough. Then she frowned. "These brakes are poor. Why not move the brakes to the rim and—"

Lucy started to cough loudly.

"Are… you okay?" Jiya said.

"Are you ill, Miss Shakesman?" Ida said.

"I don't know what came over me," Lucy said, glaring daggers at Jiya.

"I think we should go back inside," Agent Christopher said, very pointedly. "We don't want to miss Mr. Lincoln, and I'm sure he's a busy man."

"Don't contaminate the nineteenth century with twenty-first century bicycle… stuff," Lucy hissed to Jiya as they headed inside.

"What possible difference does it make if they invent rim brakes now instead of later?" Jiya whispered back.

"Don't let Agent Christopher hear you or she's going to have an aneurysm."

The policemen were gone when they returned to the parlor. "I was showing the ladies my wheel," Ida explained to Robert.

Robert raised his eyebrows, his Victorian sensibilities apparently rather tested.

Lucy cleared her throat. "I'm afraid we have to take our leave now."

"Thank you for saving me," Ida said as they shook hands. "I still don't know how—"

"You're welcome! Good luck with the biography!" Lucy turned to Robert at a speed that might be considered rude, trying to dodge the question. "Thank you," she said more quietly. "For— for believing me."

"I'm glad I did," Robert said after a minute.

"Also maybe consider the plight of the Pullman workers," Lucy said.

The Victorian eyebrows returned. "Miss Shakesman, if you had any idea the misery and unprincipled destruction caused by those riots—"

"They were  _hungry_ ," Lucy said. "Their  _children_ were hungry."

Robert looked a little uncomfortable. "It's very unfortunate, but Mr. Pullman is a businessman—"

Lucy  _looked_ at him.

He dropped eye contact first. Finally he smiled ruefully. "I've never regretted listening to you, Miss Shakesman," he said after a minute. "I'll… keep your words in mind."

That was about all she could reasonably ask. "Thank you."

They said their goodbyes. Lucy's head was spinning as they headed through the Chicago streets towards where they'd hidden the Lifeboat, between her encounter with Ida, and seeing Robert again. She didn't start paying attention again until she heard Agent Christopher say, "Do you always change history this much?"

"No," Lucy said. "Usually we change it a lot more." She paused. "Although we won't really know what happened until we get back and see the downstream effects."

"I'll be glad to be out of these damn skirts," Jiya muttered, and sniffled.

"They can be pretty difficult to get out of," Lucy said, with a pointed sideways glance. "Maybe you should ask Rufus for help."

Jiya raised her eyebrows. "The man who can barely get out of bed?  _That_ Rufus?"

"Right," Lucy sighed. "I forgot we're returning to the Plague Bunker."

"It could be worse," Agent Christopher said rather sternly.

"I know. I've spent enough time before the invention of antibiotics to know that. My point remains that living with four people with the flu—"

"The man flu," Jiya added. "I swear, Rufus whined about it worse than I did."

"— isn't exactly a picnic."

"I know. I wish I could send you somewhere else," Agent Christopher said. "But with Rittenhouse out there, it's not safe."

"Yeah," Lucy sighed. "We know." She looked up. This was probably the last time she'd see the sun in a while.

They reached the Lifeboat and struggled in. "At least it's not hoop skirts," Lucy muttered, as they all tried to arrange their skirts in the small space—

"They're still here." Jiya's voice was sharp.

Lucy looked up. "What?"

"The Mothership is still in the present."

They looked at each other. "Should've known Emma had a backup plan."

Agent Christopher was already halfway out the hatch.

It was a good half an hour later by the time they made it back to the hotel. The maid was, understandably, not thrilled to see them again. "Is Miss Tarbell in?" Lucy tried to speak respectably and not gasp, but she was out of breath.

"No, Miss, I'm afraid not."

"Do you know where she went?"

"She left with Mr. Lincoln near the top of the hour. That's all I know, Miss."

"Did you see which  _way_ they  went? " Lucy demanded.

The maid shook her head.

Agent Christopher took over: "Do you know where she usually goes?" Her voice was firm and calm. She held up a Morgan dollar.

"There's a park, Madam, where she walks sometimes. Three blocks west. But there's no guarantee she's there."

Agent Christopher handed her the dollar. "Can you think of anywhere else she might have gone."

"I heard Mr. Lincoln mention something his office," the maid said reluctantly. "Perhaps the miss went with him."

"Thank you." Agent Christopher handed her another coin.

"Do you know where Robert's office is, Lucy?" Agent Christopher asked, when the three of them were outside.

Lucy nodded. "Two miles from here." She gave the address.

"All right." She winced. "Now I see why you split up so much, even though it sounds incredibly stupid when you tell me about it. Jiya, Lucy, you head for Robert's office. I'll check the park, and then follow—"

"No. I'll go alone," Lucy said.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Agent Christopher said.

"I'll go alone because—" Lucy swallowed. "I'm going to take Ida's bicycle to get there in time."

Agent Christopher was clearly torn. "Jiya can take it—"

"I spent a semester at UChicago researching how the fire changed the city. I can find the office a lot easier than Jiya can. Also? I can breathe right now."

And, tactically… it made sense to have Agent Christopher stick with their pilot. Lucy didn't plan to die today, but if she did, the other two wouldn't be stuck. If  _Jiya_ died…

Well, Lucy still remembered 1931.

Agent Christopher obviously didn't like it, but just as obviously couldn't think of an alternative. "Be  _careful_ ," she said. "If Emma's there, don't engage her unless she's about to kill Ida. If she's there, the park'll be empty and we'll know to follow you." She reached into her reticule and handed Lucy a gun. "I took this off the sleeper agent. Don't use it unless you have to." She hesitated. " _Be. Careful_ ."

"I will," Lucy promised, touched by the deep concern in her eyes. Careful. Very, very careful. So careful.

She looked at Ida's bicycle, which clearly did not exist in the same  _universe_ as careful.

Fuck.

She mounted the thing and promptly fell over, scraping her wrist painfully along the ground. She tried again. This time she fell over in the other direction and scraped her other wrist.

"Ladies ain't got no business on them things!" a man yelled across the street.

Lucy raised her head and stared at him. He flinched, and went on his way.

A hand appeared in her field of view. She looked up at the man, and took it, letting him help her to her feet. Then he picked up the bicycle and steadied the back wheel for her, gesturing to it with a smile.

"Um. Thank you," she said. He just smiled again. She looked at his face, at his clothes, and took a guess. " _Grazie_ ," she tried.

His face lit up. He gave her a gentle push, and she stomped on the pedal, jerking forward. " _Grazie!_ " she called again, but didn't dare look back or take her hands off the handlebars.

Oh God. The damn thing jerked and shuddered, and swerved. "I thought this was supposed to be a  _safety_ bicycle," she muttered. 

She remembered from doing this as a child that she'd be more stable if she— oh God— went faster. Supposedly, anyway.

She accelerated, and tried not to steer into pedestrians. Then there was— a BUGGY—!

She narrowly avoided being killed by a horse, and the driver called something uncomplimentary to her. She was too busy trying to get over the streetcar lines without toppling ignominiously over.

Four blocks later, she swerved out of the way of a wagon and went down hard. Her forehead stung, and this time there was no helpful, quiet man to give her a hand up. She tilted her chin up, untangled her skirts, picked herself up, and got right back on the damned bike.

It got a little easier when she realized she could brake by backpedaling, too. Somehow, she wobbled up Michigan Street to the massive building on the corner with Adams. The building had apartments on the top floors, she remembered, so she should be able to get in without a key, even though it was Saturday.

She wheeled the bicycle in and left it propped next to the elevator in the ornate lobby. Then she frowned. Both elevators were dark and unattended. A sign proclaimed that they were "currently inoperable."

The directory said General Counsel's office was on the second floor. She turned towards the sweeping, bifurcated stairs, and started up.

The building was ornate, proclaiming the Pullman Company's wealth and power. Even the railings, she noticed as she reached the second floor, were—

"Hands up, Doctor Preston."

She froze, thinking some really, really strong words, and then turned slowly, hands in the air.

She didn't recognize the goon who stepped out of the shadows, holding a silenced pistol, from her time as Mom's prisoner. He almost acted like—

— like he'd been waiting for her. Of course. No _wonder_ the elevators were out of commission.

God, she was an idiot.

He forced her ahead of him down the hall, to the left, and into the offices. Lucy was relieved to see Ida bound and gagged against the wall, looking furious. Less relieved to hear a familiar voice in the adjacent office.

"Emma!" the goon called.

Robert appeared first, and then Emma, holding him at gunpoint. Lucy could see lights on in the adjacent office, and ledgers open. Looking for something Rittenhouse could use? At least Ida wasn't dead. Was Emma keeping her as a hostage against Robert?

"Well, well," Emma said. "Hello,  _Princess_ ."

"God, Emma, you need a hobby," Lucy said.

Emma's smile was sharp. "But I enjoy this one so much." She looked Lucy over. "I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd figure it out. Your mom didn't either."

"I guess that shows which of us is smarter, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, except I'm going to kill you, so then I won't have any competition."

"You know, if the whole bloodlines thing bothers you so much," Lucy said, "why are you working for an organization that worships them?"

Emma started to snap something, then glanced behind Lucy, at the goon holding her hostage, and changed her mind. She glared. "Put her against the wall. We still might be able to use her."

The goon prodded Lucy forward.

"You, back in the offices, or I kill Miss Tarbell," Emma told Robert.

"She's going to kill her anyway," Lucy said quickly. "That's why she's here, she sent the man this morning—"

The man poked his gun hard into Lucy's spine. "Stop talking."

Robert's face had been impossible to read this whole time. He glanced from Lucy to Emma and back. Emma smiled a little, then tilted her head towards the other room, and he obeyed.

The goon tied Lucy's hands behind her back and then gagged her with a handkerchief. Lucy had learned some tricks, since that night Agent Kondo had appeared at the door, and her bonds weren't as tight as they should've been. She couldn't do anything about the handkerchief. Yet.

Ida turned her head to look at her. Lucy gave her an apologetic look. It was, literally, all she could do.

Her face, her wrists, and all the other scrapes she'd gotten on that bicycle stung as she lay against the wall and worked on the knot. She didn't think she was making any progress. The rope chafed her wrists.

If this was really it, this time… If she never made it back…

Well. At least Wyatt wouldn't be left on his own, right?

Footsteps: Emma returning with Robert. If Emma was done, then their usefulness to Emma was about to end. But Emma was frowning at the goon. "I thought you said you disabled all the elevators."

Lucy listened, and now she could hear it, too: the clanking of hydraulics.

"I did." The goon straightened up.

Emma swore softly. "Could be no one, could be trouble." She hesitated, then glanced at her captives. "He's coming with us." She gestured to Robert. "If either of you are gone when we get back? He dies. And I'll make it slow." She jerked her head, and the goon led the way out the door.

Something slid out of Robert's sleeve, down his trouser leg, and landed silently on the floor. Emma, eyes on the door, didn't see it.

As soon as they were gone, Lucy sat up and scooted over on her knees. A letter opener.

Lucy grabbed it with her hands behind her back. Damn it, this was Salem all over again, but this time Flynn wasn't going to appear out of nowhere with several guns. On Lucy's first try, she just sliced open her palm. Her second try, she hit the rope sideways. She took enough out of it that when she strained, it broke.

She grabbed the letter opener and made quick work of Ida's bonds, then ungagged them both. "You have to go," she whispered. "Sneak through the adjacent offices and around the back. Go."

"That woman is going to kill Mr. Lincoln if I do."

"She's bluffing." Lucy lied ruthlessly. "She only wants him as leverage against you. If you're gone, he— she'll let him go. She's after  _you_ , Ida."

" _Why?_ "

" _Just go!_ "

But it was too late. They heard footsteps returning. Lucy slid the letter opener up her sleeve, put her gag back in, and slumped against the wall, hands behind her back. After a second, Ida did the same.

Emma barely glanced at them to make sure they were still in the same place. She forced Robert back into the next office.

A shot went off in that room.

Lucy scrambled to her feet, diving through the doorway as the startled goon aimed at her, before she realized the shot hadn't been silenced. Should she've stayed to protect Ida? But if Emma had just shot Robert, Ida was their only remaining hostage—

Robert was grappling with Emma, trying to keep her gun hand pinned and disarm her, while from the other side of the massive oak desk, Agent Christopher tried to get a clear shot at Emma.

Robert was taller and heavier than Emma, but she had the advantage of youth and better training. She shoved him away— brought her gun up—

Lucy dove for her, grabbed her around the middle, and brought the letter opener down towards her thigh. Emma elbowed her arm hard, and Lucy's wrist deflected, only slicing open Emma's skirts and making a deep cut across her skin rather than lodging in the meaty part of her muscle. Lucy hung on grimly—

Emma threw her backwards into the wall. Stunned, Lucy fell to the floor. A bullet buried itself overhead in the wall— Emma grabbed her arm— Agent Christopher's second shot had come closer to the mark—

Emma looked around, fired back at Agent Christopher, and dove for the door that led to the hall.

Noise from the other room. Lucy looked back through  _that_ doorway to see Ida trying to fight off the goon. But a well-bred Gilded Age lady had no chance against a trained Rittenhouse thug—

The man slowly sank to the ground, looking surprised, revealing Jiya standing over him with a vase.

Agent Christopher glanced at him. "Take his gun and tie him up," she ordered. "Stay here until I get back." She took off after Emma.

Jiya was the first to recover. She slid the goon's gun away from him, searched him, and found more rope. "Allow me," Robert said, kneeling a little clumsily beside her and taking the rope. He looked up. "They took my knife. Miss Shakesman, do you have the letter opener?"

"Oh. Yeah." Lucy recovered it from where it had landed, wiped the blood from the slippery handle, and gave it to him.

She helped Ida up. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not hurt." Ida's voice was shaky. She cleared her throat, straightened her skirts, and tried to fix her hair, which was falling down onto her shoulders, as Robert bound the Rittenhouse goon hand and foot with very serviceable knots.

He looked up. "Do you expect any more of them, Miss Shakesman?" His voice was rueful, but strained.

Lucy leaned against the desk, her shoulders slumping. She was sore and bleeding and tired and she wanted Emma to stop trying to kill her and she wanted to go home. "I have no idea." Her voice cracked.

Then she looked up at Jiya. "How did you get here? What was Agent Christopher doing in the office?"

"It took us about five seconds to see Ida wasn't in the park, so we took a cab here. Agent Christopher figured the elevators were disabled to force anyone coming upstairs to take the main stairs and turn them into a, um, choke point…"

Lucy massaged her temples, feeling like an idiot.

"… so I fixed one of the elevators and took it up to the third floor as a distraction while she picked the lock on one of the back stairs. I came down the back stairs while you guys were busy."

"You fixed the elevator yourself?" Ida sounded intrigued.

Jiya smirked. "What, like it's hard?"

Ida's eyebrows went up. "Are you a mechanic?"

"… sort of."

Robert cleared his throat. "That woman left my keys here. I can lock you ladies in, and wait outside with… that." He looked down at the gun.

Lucy grabbed it before he could. "Nope, you're staying with us. If they come back, you're a target, too."

Robert's eyebrows went up, but all he said was, "Very well."

He locked the door that led into the waiting room, and the one that led into the hall. He left the door to the next room open, but locked the two other doors out of that room. He looked at the mess in the second room— ledgers on the floor, papers everywhere— shook his head, and began to put things straight.

Lucy joined him. "Will you be in trouble over this?"

He sighed, looking considerably more disheveled than when they'd first met this morning. "Because of armed ruffians breaking into our offices? No." He picked up a ledger and set it on the desk, looking weary.

"What did she want in here? Did she say?"

"She said she was looking for something to use against Mr. Pullman."

"Of course." Emma wouldn't pass up the chance to get a hold on one of the most successful transportation executives in the country.

From the next room, Jiya coughed sharply. Lucy looked up. Jiya was sagging against the desk, but she waved away Lucy's concern. All their decongestants were back at the Lifeboat.

"Is she consumptive?" Robert asked quietly.

Lucy remembered that one of his brothers had died of consumption. She shook her head. "Just getting over a, um. Cold."

Robert nodded, accepting this. "Besides," he said after a moment, "if word of this does get out, perhaps it'll be enough to stop them from wanting me to run for president this time." He smiled wryly.

"They want you to run for president?"

"They always want me to run for president." He sighed. "I've never put myself forward as a candidate for any office responsible for more than thirty thousand people, but no one seems to have noticed that."

"Don't let them push you into it, Rob— Mr. Lincoln," she said gently, because she knew what the historical record, but also because he looked and sounded exhausted at the very prospect. This staid corporate lawyer was in some ways very different from the man who'd taken her to Ford's Theatre, but she still cared about him.

"Don't worry, Miss Shakesman," he said, mouth twitching. "Few people have ever managed to push me into anything."

"I can see that about you." She smiled at him.

For a few minutes, they tidied up the office quietly. In the next room, Ida and Jiya were chatting about science. Lucy hoped Jiya wasn't telling Ida anything that would radically change the course of scientific history. But she was too tired to go and check, and frankly, even if she did, how would she know? Lucy wasn't a scientist.

"Miss Shakesman?"

She straightened up.

"May I ask you something?"

Robert looked strangely hesitant. "Yeah— yes."

He hesitated again. "May I ask your name?"

Lucy stared at him. He'd realized— and he'd still helped them…

She swallowed. "Lucy," she said softly. "My real name is Lucy."

He nodded slowly. "It's a… lovely name."

"Thank you."

They'd mostly put the office to rights by the time someone knocked on the door, though the wall out of which Lucy had dug Agent Christopher's bullet would never be the same. "It's Agent Christopher," said a familiar voice. "I'm alone."

Lucy hesitated, and went to the door. "What did you give me to put in our… vehicle?"

"Photos," Agent Christopher said.

Lucy opened the door. Agent Christopher looked approving of her caution. She also looked intact.

"I chased her all the way back to—" Agent Christopher glanced sideways at Robert. "Her vehicle," she said. "She's gone."

Lucy's shoulders slumped in relief.

"How do you know she's not going to come back?" Ida asked.

"She's very far away by now."

"She took a fast train?" Robert sounded confused.

"Sort of," Lucy said.

"And if she comes back," Jiya added, "we'll know."

Ida looked from one of them to the other.

"We need to go now," Agent Christopher said. "Mr. Lincoln, thank you for your assistance." She held out her hand to him. He shook it, looking a little bemused. "Miss Tarbell, it was a pleasure to meet you."

Lucy and Jiya likewise said goodbye. "Oh, um, your bicycle is downstairs," Lucy told Ida. "I needed to get here in a hurry."

Ida's eyes danced. "I wondered about the abrasions on your face."

Lucy did not roll her eyes at the highly-respected historical figure. She did  _not_ .

"Will I see you again?" Robert asked her quietly, trying not to smile. "Our second meeting has not made me any less convinced of the existence of fate."

She shook her head. "I don't know," she had to admit.

"Then I'll wish you a safe journey." He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, just as he had thirty years ago. "Lucy."

She smiled up at him. "Goodbye, Robert," she told him. "And… good luck. With everything."

"You told him your real name?" Jiya said when they were back on the street.

Lucy shrugged. "We were hostages together. It felt right."

"Lucy, why was Ida—" Jiya stopped to cough. It sounded really painful. "Why was she like that about a woman's place, or whatever that, um, stuff she said was? Did  _she_ ever marry?"

Lucy sighed, and shook her head. "Some historians have speculated she regretted the choices she'd made, in the end, to prioritize her career over the possibility of marriage and family."

"Did she ever, I mean, come close or anything?"

"Not that we know of. Sometimes she was a little… um, clueless, honestly, around men. In college, four of her male friends gave her their fraternity pins, and, not knowing any better, she wore them all to church the same day."

Jiya winced. "… and was a fraternity pin like a letter jacket?"

"Pretty much." Lucy actually enjoyed that story a little, sadistic at that sounded. It made her feel better about her own awkwardness around men.

"Let's go home." Agent Christopher moved her shoulders in a circle, and sighed. "I bet Icy-Hot hasn't even been invented yet."

"We could find you some nice horse liniment," Lucy offered.

A dry sideways glance. "I'll pass, thanks."

#

When the Lifeboat shuddered to a halt, and Lucy jumped down to get the stairs, only Jessica was out and alert in the main room. Wyatt had dragged himself out at some point, apparently determined to be there when they returned, and was now snoring loudly and congestedly on the couch.

"Everyone all right?" Jessica asked.

"Peachy," Agent Christopher said, climbing down. "Here?"

"Wyatt's—" She glanced at the couch, and made an eloquent face that combined long-suffering with fondness.

It hurt. Lucy looked away.

"Mr. Mason surfaced a few hours ago for the bathroom. I gave him some more Gatorade. Rufus was out shortly after you guys left, I fixed him some toast and tea." She nodded to Jiya. "Haven't seen Flynn. I've been leaving water at his door."

Lucy glanced at Flynn's door, outside which several water bottles had accumulated. She looked back at Jessica, and raised her eyebrows.

"I haven't actually seen him, but he's drank some of those," Jessica assured her.

Jiya sagged suddenly against the couch, drawing their attention and concern. "I'm all right," she muttered. "Just tired."

"You're not better yet, and you had a hard day." Agent Christopher's voice was gentle. "But we needed you, and you came through."

Jiya groaned softly.

"You did good, Jiya." Agent Christopher put her hand against Jiya's forehead. "I'll help you get changed and into bed before I go, okay?"

Satisfied Jiya was in good hands, Lucy changed in the bathroom. She winced as she carefully dabbed the blood off of her hands and face. She leaned against the sink when she was done, so tired, in a way that she wasn't sure sleep would touch.

She went back out to the living room. Jess and Wyatt were gone, back to their room. Lucy found a tablet and flicked through several articles trying to figure out what had happened.

Ida's history was largely the same. Her Lincoln biography was even more extensive now, and even more critically acclaimed. But she'd still published  _The History of the Standard Oil Company._ Standard Oil itself had still been dissolved in 1911. The Federal Trade Commission and the foundational regulatory acts were all in place. She'd still been against women's suffrage; as a result, Helen Keller had still implied she was old and out of touch, and Jane Addams had still called her mind limited.

With Elliot Dalton dying an untimely death, the Chicago public school system had never been the same. The Dalton Foundation wasn't a thing any more. There was now no trace of Isaiah Hughes, Thurgood Marshall's famous colleague who'd gone to law school on a Dalton scholarship. Thank God Brown v. Board of Education was still intact.

Wait… if Dalton had been a sleeper agent, did that mean what he'd accomplished for public education had been unintentional?

Lucy's head hurt just thinking through the changes to the timeline. Instead, she looked up Robert Todd Lincoln.

Most of this was the same, too. When Robert had become president of Pullman in 1897, he'd quietly tied rents in the Pullman community to average wages at the car company itself. That definitely hadn't happened before.

The company had had to sell the community off not very long after. Maybe it hadn't made much difference at all.

Lucy set the tablet aside. It wasn't their job to fix history and smooth over the ugly parts. It was their job to preserve it.

Right?

She got up, hesitated, and glanced at the kitchen.

She knocked on Flynn's door and pushed it open when she didn't get an answer. The smell of stale sweat hit her hard. She took a few cautious steps inside, holding the tray tightly.

"Saint Lucy, carrying her charity into the plague house?" Flynn rasped. He'd thrown off the grey military-issue blanket, and sprawled limply across the bed, his undershirt and sweats sticking damply to him, his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes glittered with fever. "Checking to see how soon I'll be, uh, useful?"

She closed the door behind her.

"Or are you…" he began, and had to stop for breath. "Making sure the guard dog is still…" Pause. "Chained in the doghouse?"

Being sick clearly hadn't sweetened his temper. Barely able to talk, and he was still snapping at her.

"You're welcome, Flynn," she said pointedly, glancing around the room. She'd never been in here before. He'd clearly kept it with military neatness up until the flu, though it was hard to be messy when you had as few possessions as he did. Clothes stacked in one of the cubbies; books on the desk; on the box that served as a nightstand…

"I didn't ask you to barge in," he snapped.

… on the box that served as a nightstand, a cheap calendar. But a current one. A strange thing for a terrorist out on parole, living isolated in an underground bunker, with no family or friends left in the world, to need.

She looked at the date. She remembered his file. He saw her looking, and his lips tightened.

She raised her eyebrows. He glared fiercely for a moment, and then all the fight seemed to just go out of him. He sagged back against the pillow, eyes closed. Now he just looked… tired. Old. Sad.

She turned away to give him a moment, and… find something to sit on. She definitely wasn't sitting on the edge of the bed. She found herself not quite ready to leave, either. Finally she dragged over an empty carton. She reached for the calendar, hesitated, glanced at him to make sure he wasn't going to object, and carefully moved it to another box so she could put the tray down next to him.

He propped himself up on his elbows, maybe the first stage to sitting up. Lucy thought that was rather ambitious of him. "I heard the alarm," he rasped.

"Mm-hmm. We're back. No damage."

He actually managed to wriggle his way up, rubbed his hands over his face, and reached for the bowl of soup. He already looked exhausted.

"We saved Ida Tarbell," Lucy added.

"Course the bastards wanted to take down corporate regulations," he muttered, lifting the spoon rather shakily to his mouth.

"Jiya and I both got to ride a historic bicycle."

"I wondered about the abrasions on your face." He glanced at her carefully, as if worried he was overstepping.

She happily rolled her eyes at  _him_ .

"Got to see Robert Todd Lincoln again," she said after a minute.

They both looked at each other, and the memory of the  _last_ time she'd seen Robert seemed to loom large in the room.

Flynn looked down. He managed another few swallows. "If I tried to, uh, apologize, would you throw it in my face?" he finally asked lightly.

"The soup? I worked hard… heating that on the stove."

He snorted. His hand was tight on the spoon.

She hesitated.  _I'll let you know when I'm ready to hear that_ was on the tip of her tongue. But sitting here, weary from the mission, exhausted from everything, watching him, burdened by grief and loss, fight for the strength just to drink a few ounces of soup… 

"No," she said quietly.

He looked up, and put the spoon down. He swallowed, and winced. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he said haltingly. "I…" He apparently tried to think of all the different ways that could go. Finally he sighed, shoulders slumping. "I am sorry."

"Thanks," she said after a minute. She paused. "I mean, 1865 wasn't nearly as scary as Nazis or the Alamo anyway."

She only realized how that had come out when he winced. "I—"

"Don't," she said firmly. "If you start apologizing to me for all the things you should apologize for, we'll be here all night."

He coughed out a bark of laughter, and then winced. She handed him the packet of pills off the tray. "Can you open those, or do you need help?"

He gave her a Look.

She got up and brought all the water bottles inside next to the bed, where they'd actually do some good. He'd put the bowl back on the tray, and his eyes were closed again.

"Thanks, Lucy," he whispered.

She fumbled for something clever to say, but she was tired. "Feel better."

She was pretty sure he was almost asleep already.

Agent Christopher was gathering her things when Lucy let herself out of Flynn's room and put the tray in the sink. "Is he all right?" she asked.

Lucy nodded. "Just sick."

Agent Christopher looked relieved.

Lucy raised her eyebrows.

"I don't like or trust him any more than he does me, but he's here now, which means he's my responsibility," Agent Christopher said.

"I think he'll be fine. Just like the rest of our charming invalids."

Agent Christopher made a wry face.

"How's Jiya?" Lucy added.

"She's fine. I made sure she ate, and then got to sleep."

Lucy nodded. "And how are you?"

Agent Christopher winced. "Much as it hurts my pride to admit it, I'm sore. So I'm going to go home—" She shouldered her bag. "And find the heating pad and the Icy-Hot. And if I'm  _very_ lucky, Michelle might be willing to help me with it." She smiled.

Lucy couldn't help smiling back. "Well, enjoy it for all of us stuck in the bunker of lukewarm showers and crappy mattresses."

"I'll try to find some better mattresses," Agent Christopher promised. "Now that I've experienced what you go through every time you go on one of these trips? Yeah." She glanced around. "I'm not promising masseuses, but I'll see what I can do."

She started for the door, then turned back. "Lucy."

"Yeah?"

"The three of us made a good team today," Agent Christopher said. "I was… glad to have you and Jiya by my side."

Lucy smiled again. "We did well," she agreed. " _You_ did well." Then she couldn't help adding: "You know. For a beginner."

Agent Christopher narrowed her eyes. "I'm leaving now, before the temptation to call you a young punk gets too strong, Doctor Preston."

Lucy laughed, and it felt good. "Good night, Agent Christopher."

"Good night, Lucy."

**Author's Note:**

> “Courage implies a suspicion of danger… We were undertaking what we regarded as a legitimate piece of historical work. We were neither apologists nor critics, only journalists intent on discovering what had gone into the making of this most perfect of all monopolies. What had we to be afraid of?”  
> — Ida Tarbell
> 
>  
> 
> One of my favorite things about this fic is that it’s plausible. Robert Todd Lincoln, Jane Addams, Ida B. Wells-Barnett, Clarence Darrow, and Eugene Debs were all residents of Chicago in 1895. Ida Tarbell did in fact meet Robert Todd Lincoln in Mrs. Emily Lyons’s parlor sometime that same year. I haven’t fudged any historical details that I am aware of. Ida’s cycling, her scientific nature, and her opposition to women’s suffrage are all true.
> 
> I was unsure of the exact date of Jane’s trip to Niagara Falls that year, Eugene’s release from prison, and Ida’s visit to Mrs. Lyons. Probably the latter is in her papers, but I, alas, could not go to Arizona just to find out.
> 
> Ida says in her autobiography that she met Mr. Lincoln when he was already president of Pullman, which wasn’t until 1897. However, the picture was on the front cover of the first installment of the series on President Lincoln, so the meeting must’ve happened by November 1895. She began traveling to Kentucky to research the series in February of 1895, so it was sometime in between those two dates.
> 
> Finally, Robert became such a major character in this story quite late in its writing, so I did not use any scholarly work for the details of his life. I used Wikipedia. I was frankly afraid that if I checked out yet another biography, I’d never climb out of the rabbit hole.
> 
> For this fic, I drew on the books:
> 
> Brady, Kathleen. _Portrait of a Muckraker._ 1984.
> 
> Dilberto, Gioia. _A Useful Woman._ 1999.
> 
> McMurry, Linda O. _To Keep the Waters Troubled: The Life of Ida B. Wells._ 1998.
> 
> Linn, James Weber. _Jane Addams: A Biography._ 2000.
> 
> Somervill, Barbara. _Ida Tarbell: Pioneer Investigative Reporter._ 2002.
> 
> Tarbell, Ida M. _All In The Day’s Work._ 1939.
> 
> Weinberg, Steve. _Taking on the Trust: The Epic Battle of Ida Tarbell and John D. Rockefeller._ 2008.


End file.
